Long Spoon Lane - Anne Perry [65]
She was clinging onto his arm, largely to keep herself from being separated from him in the crowd surging forward as the doors were opened. It was a good feeling, warm and sweet. Heaven knows, he had waited long enough for her even to speak civilly to him! He remembered her original scorn towards him. She had swept by him with her chin in the air, which was an achievement, considering she barely made five feet and was as scrawny as a twopenny rabbit. But she had enough spirit for two women twice her size, and Tellman had been fascinated from the beginning. Admittedly, he had deceived himself for nearly a year that it was irritation with her meddling that moved him, nothing else.
They pressed forward with the crowd, and were shown to their seats. There was chattering and laughter as everyone arranged their skirts, complained about their neighbors, called out to people they knew, and generally made themselves comfortable.
It was an excellent bill: an acrobat, a juggler, two contortionists who worked together, a dancer, several singers, and two first-class comedians. He had bought Gracie chocolate and mint humbugs, and intended to buy her a lemonade in the interval. For three hours he could put everything to do with crime of any sort out of his mind.
The curtain rose. To bursts of applause the master of ceremonies announced the acts in the customary flowing and ornate language. Gracie and Tellman thoroughly enjoyed the jugglers who were funny as well as clever, and the acrobat who was graceful and something of a mime artist as well. They were happy to join in enthusiastically with the singers, as was all the audience. The first half of the show finished with howls of laughter at one of the two comedians billed.
When the applause had subsided and the red plush curtain had fallen, Tellman rose to his feet.
“Would you like a lemonade?” he offered.
“Thank you, Samuel,” she said courteously. “That would be very nice.”
He returned barely ten minutes later. She accepted the glass from him and sat sipping, a very slight frown on her face.
“What’s the matter?” he asked anxiously. “Is it too sour?”
“It’s lovely,” she answered. “I’m just worried about Mr. Pitt.”
“Why’s that?” he said, wanting to reassure her. If she had seen his anxiety, or the guilt eating at him because the force he had served and believed in all his adult life was riddled with corruption, then he must help divert her from the truth, and find some other explanation. “Special Branch is a hard job, you know,” he went on. “Not as straightforward as regular police.”
“ ’Course it isn’t,” she agreed, sipping again at the lemonade. Her voice was very soft when she continued. The people next to them could not have heard. “ ’E’s tryin’ ter find out if them stupid bombers is tellin’ the truth about the police, or not. An’ it in’t ’ardly like ’e could ask anyone, is it? ’Oo could ’e trust?”
“Most of us are as honest as anyone in Special Branch!” he said hotly. “And he knows that!”
“ ’E knows you are,” she corrected him. “ ’E don’t know about nobody else.”
“Yes he does. He knows…” He stopped, aware that he himself was not sure whom he could trust.
She was looking at him, her eyes bright and sharp, seeing every flicker that crossed his face. He felt the heat in his cheeks, and knew he was coloring.
“ ’E told you about it, din’t ’e?” she said levelly, ignoring the lemonade. “Yer know wot it is as ’e’s scared of, don’t yer?”
Her friendship was too new, and far too precious to risk by telling lies, even half-lies. “I can’t talk about police business,” he said gravely. “Not even with you.” If he told her it was to protect her from worrying she would be furious. He had tried it before, and been accused of talking down to her. She had treated him like a leper for two months afterwards.
“You don’t need to!” she said stiffly. “I worked for Mr. Pitt for near ten years. I know as ’e won’t let rottenness go by, whatever